A Taste for Nightshade by Martine Bailey Read Free Book Online Page B

Affronted, he looked from me to my father and back.
    â€˜No, Grace. Go into the house. I’ll deal with him.’
    Father began to roar then, swinging his inky knuckles. ‘If I can’t have it, no one will,’ he cried incomprehensibly. I cringed away, longing for the stone flags beneath my feet to open up and swallow me. Father landed a clumsy blow on John Francis’s arm, but the lad backed nimbly away. ‘Mr Moore, sir. I don’t know what you are rambling on about,’ he protested.
    I watched, too frightened to stop Father, for fear of him striking me in turn. He edged penitently towards John Francis, then suddenly lashed out with his fist at his face. His opponent was too agile to take the full force, but received a pink graze to his cheek.
    â€˜I am sorry, Grace.’ John Francis raised himself to his full height and eyed my father with determination. He then strode up to Father and landed a powerful blow to his jaw that sent him toppling to the ground. My once proud father lay crumpled in the dirt. I buried my face in my hands, praying that this scene was a nightmare and that I might soon wake and find myself in bed.

    I did not wake up from that lamentable dream, only lived on with my father at Palatine House. Soon afterwards, John Francis left me a letter, tucked inside our bird’s nest hiding place:
    My Dearest Grace,
    Your father will not allow me within sight of your home and has made violent threats to my person. Worse, my own family have learned of our connection and are fixed on removing me from you and from Greaves. I am to take up a position with my uncle in Bristol; but he is a man of sympathy and I hope to persuade him of the rightness of my actions.
    Grace, I cannot abandon you. Will you come with me? Naturally we must marry at once and then bide our time, but I am hopeful all will turn out well.
    If you can find it in your heart to come away with me, leave a candle burning in your window at ten o’clock tonight. I shall fetch the trap and meet you at the top of the lane.
    Your loving sweetheart,
    John Francis
    A heavenly sunset mocked me that night, the sky a tumult of lavender clouds tinged with gold. I sat on my narrow bed, my tinderbox in hand. Father had returned from the Bush Tavern some hours earlier, and was noisily sleeping away the effects in his chamber. Our hall clock chimed a half-hour after nine. I had to decide.
    I did my utmost to imagine a future for John Francis and myself. Yet all I could summon was fear: of hiding in shabby rooms, of every day dawning with the expectation of discovery. As the sky imperceptibly darkened to night, all vitality drained from my limbs. I began to rock gently back and forth and to touch my crucifix, longing for a sign from my dear mother. How could I go? Yet how could I stay? I searched in my heart for courage and found that fleshy chamber empty. As the minutes passed, my head throbbed with agitation.
    I believed I loved John Francis, but still I found objections. How could I be sure John truly wanted me – the awkward, impractical me? Would I not be a burden to him? Nor did I wish to betray his honest parents. And was it rightful to leave my own father, so soon after Mother’s death, just as he was cast so low?
    The clock struck ten. My candle stood unlit in my window. With shaking hands I struck the flint and coaxed a flame. Picking up John’s letter I burned it as the tears wet my cheeks. Then, throwing the letter in my grate, I cast myself down on my bed in wretched darkness.
    Soft footsteps approached below my window. I buried my head in my pillow. After a dreadful interlude of silence the footsteps quietly moved away.
    Almost at once I comprehended my mistake. My mother had wordlessly told me the truth on her deathbed. She had been chained to my father and now I was, too. Instead of locks and keys, I was a prisoner of drudgery and lack of funds. A few weeks later, news reached me that John Francis had